


If It's Not Alright

by thatonelesbianyouknow



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, Drug Abuse, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 18:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonelesbianyouknow/pseuds/thatonelesbianyouknow
Summary: In the immortal words of Murdoc Niccals, "we're putting the band back together." What, someone else said that first? Well, bollocks to him.





	If It's Not Alright

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Murdoc Niccals and his quest to make Humanz.
> 
> Slight liberties may be taken with the canon, because there's only so much I can keep track of that shit. I tried though ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Murdoc grimaced down at the piece of paper in his hands, and the hastily scribbled home addressed copied onto it. He looked back up at the grimy, dilapidated flat in front of him, lips curling back in distaste. It was worse than he remembered. And he couldn’t remember much good about it in the first place.

Stoke-On-Trent was the absolute last place Murdoc Niccals wanted to be right now. After everything he had been through the past decade, it was downright dangerous to his health to remain in his hometown for too long, with all the sour memories laying about and all the old acquaintances that loved to subtly ask him for cash or other forms of handout. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to be here for long. He just needed to attend to this business, and then he was off like a shot to a studio he had already rented out in London.

And as much as there was that Murdoc could say about his brother, the one good thing about Hannibal Niccals was that he wasn’t one to “catch up.” Honestly, Murdoc would be surprised if the man uttered more than five words to him while he was here.

Still, he gritted his teeth as he walked up to the door, pushing the buzzer. The crackly, broken noise the thing made only made Murdoc tense further. The was no answer at first, and he had no choice but to ring the bell again.

At this, Murdoc could hear incomprehensible shouts from inside, though they were most likely slurs, and his jaw was so tight that his teeth began to hurt.

When the door finally swung open, he was face-to-face with his brother, which was a shock in more ways than one. Murdoc carefully made sure not to let the feeling register on his face.

The Niccals gene was a pretty potent one, especially in the mouth and eyes, so Hannibal and Murdoc had always looked quite a bit alike despite having different mothers. Hannibal was larger, a bit burlier, overall had a more physically imposing presence than Murdoc did, but all in all the family resemblance was clear. It was for that reason that Murdoc couldn’t help but be taken aback by how old Hannibal looked. Hannibal was only - what? Two years older than him? Three years older than him? He couldn’t be bothered to remember. Five years at the most. It was a bit sobering to see him standing before him, looking like a tired old man. Even more to the point, it made Murdoc think about all the times he had looked in the mirror the past few years and noticed how ragged he looked some days. All those shady deals with the underworld he had made couldn’t seem to stave off the inevitable wear of age, and seeing Hannibal after all this time made him feel old. Too old.

Worst of all, Hannibal almost looked like their father. And Murdoc worried that Hannibal might be looking at him with the same sentiments.

Hannibal blinked slowly at his brother, silent for a moment, as if having trouble processing the man at his doorstep.

“Oi.” He grunted finally, shoving a hand down his pants and scratching like nobody was watching. “When’d you get out, twit?”

Murdoc simply glowered at the man, considering asking him the exact same question. But perhaps it was better to get straight to the point.

“I want my bird back.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at the curt statement, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Funny, that. Usually I’d be the one sayin’ that. I ain’t had anybody over like that in a while though. Least of all the kind of trollop that’d associate with you.”

It took Murdoc a second to process the reply, and when he did he threw his head back dramatically with a phlegm-choked scoff.

“Not _that_ kind of bird, you git!” He exclaimed, pushing himself through the doorway in exasperation. “The bird! The _real_ bird!”

“Oh.” Hannibal grunted. He stepped aside as Murdoc let himself in, not even bothering to close the front door behind him, probably assuming like Murdoc that this reunion wouldn‘t last long enough to warrant the expenditure of energy. “That thing. I don’t know. It’s around here somewhere.”

As if on cue, Murdoc heard the sound of a rough caw from the other room, and he was surprised at how the crackling call of an old friend almost made his cold, blackened heart stir. The raven came into view, flying in from the bedroom, and Murdoc raised an arm to meet him. Cortez approached and perched on his forearm like it was second nature, like it hadn’t been nearly a decade since he had last seen the man before him. The bird seemed to be regarding him with some fondness -- the fact that he had immediately come to him was evidence enough of this -- but as he made contact with Murdoc he slipped back into being the illusive, aloof creature that he was. Despite the slight tug on the heartstrings Murdoc felt, he figured he should behave in the same matter, especially while Hannibal was standing behind them. Both the bird and his brother could be quick to bite, after all.

Still, he found himself raising his other hand to give Cortez a gentle tap to the snout. The bird beaked at his fingers, a bit roughly, but it wasn’t anything Murdoc couldn’t handle.

“Thought for sure that thing’d be dead when I got back from the last stint.” Hannibal interjected, snorting in amusement. “It was still kickin’, though. Figured its shit out somehow. Guess there was some weeks I even forgot it was here. Almost felt bad for takin’ all that money you lent me for keepin’ it. Almost. That’s gone now, anyway.”

Murdoc only grimaced, trying his best to ignore the grating sound of his brother’s voice during the most genuine moment of happiness he had had in a long while.

Before things had gone downhill for Murdoc, right between the fiasco of the “El Mañana” video and running off to Plastic Beach, he knew that he was going to be the target of some shady shit for a long while. He had had so little in those days, it was almost a blessing that he could just up and leave without having any of those pesky things in the way like informing his kin and getting someone to water the plants. But what he did have was his Winnebago, and Cortez. The camper had been parked illegally before running off to sea, and was currently impounded. He didn’t have the money to get it out at the moment, but he always found a way to make do regarding that. This time would be no different.

Cortez, however, was a different story. Murdoc had no doubt that the old raven was a scrapper, and that he could have released him into an active hurricane and he would have come out no worse for the wear. But after all those years they had spent bonding - at least as much as an indifferent man and bird could bond - Murdoc couldn’t help the selfish feeling of not wanting to let him go that easily. He was one of the last sentient creatures that would give him the time of day, after all. They were both prickly old prison rats with nothing to look forward to but each other, and Murdoc couldn’t help but be sentimental about it. The bird should be at least vaguely looked after, and it wouldn’t have been safe or prudent for Murdoc to do it with what he went though.

The trouble with that though, was finding someone to do it. The list of people he could trust with that task had become troublingly short. And perhaps saying that he truly trusted Hannibal was a reach, but the good thing about his brother was that he was an exceedingly simple and immovable man. He never really had any glittering prospects in life, no strong opinions on anything, and no sense of loyalty unless a large sum of money was involved. Even his crimes were such petty, sightless things, between lifting hubcaps and getting into random bar brawls. Hannibal’s general apathy honestly made Murdoc sick, hence the reason why tried not to associate with him throughout most of their adulthood. But it meant that at the very least, he needn’t worry about his brother doing anything to actively harm his feathered friend. After a bit of bribery, Hannibal agreed to let Cortez into his home until it was safe for Murdoc to come back and get him. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but it was better than any other alternatives. At the worst, Cortez would just have to take care of himself, but at least Murdoc could feel secure in knowing where he was.

The sense of relief Murdoc felt upon seeing a familiar face, as avian as it was, was almost enough to let a “thank you” escape from his mouth, but he swallowed it out of pure spite and turned back to the door.

“That’s all.” He grunted, already walking towards the exit. “See you in hell.”

Hannibal muttered a reply that Murdoc couldn’t be bothered to listen to. He had stepped around Murdoc and was now at his fridge, pulling out a can of cheap beer. Murdoc had almost made it outside before Hannibal spoke up again, his tone changed, with a slight annoyance like he had misplaced something.

“Oh, by the way,” Hannibal called, cracking the tab open, the drink fizzing loudly behind him, “Dad’s dead.”

The words were spoken so unceremoniously, so casually, that Murdoc couldn’t process their meaning. He heard them, but they were nothing but noise. Even as he stopped dead in his tracks, one foot out the door, it was nothing but a sound rattling around in his head. It felt as if his consciousness was being ripped from its physical body, every ounce of brain power being put towards deciphering Hannibal’s words, and for a moment everything went numb.

Then, all at once, it finally hit him. Murdoc turned back to his brother slowly.

“What?”

“Dad’s dead.” Hannibal repeated flatly, throwing his head back and downing half the can in one go. He looked uninterested, unaffected by his own words. A part of Murdoc didn’t know why that shocked him, Hannibal being the hard-nosed dullard he was, but it did. He knew that neither of them were emotional creatures by any means, but his reaction was so comically distant from what it should have been that Murdoc was at a loss for words.

“When?” After a few more beats of silence, it was the first thing that came out of Murdoc’s mouth.

Hannibal grunted, wiping the beer from his mouth “Eh. Few years ago. I guess. Dunno.”

Cortez, almost forgotten about, let out a loud caw. It was enough to jerk Murdoc out of his numb state, and the words were coming clearer to him now. The initial shock was gone, but the disbelief persisted as he furrowed his brow at his brother.

“A few years?” Murdoc parroted. “You _guess_? Fucking hell, Hannibal. When the fuck were you planning on saying something?”

“You was in the clink by then,” Hannibal said defensively. He scratched himself again. “What was I gonna do?”

Cortez was getting restless, perhaps eager for them to make their way out of that musty little flat, and he cawed loudly again. Murdoc raised his hand to offer a finger to the bird. He bit down a little harder this time. Murdoc flinched slightly, but it was such a welcome distraction from the current situation that he didn’t pay much more mind to the pain..

“Well. Fuck,” Murdoc muttered, his voice thick with impatience. It was almost ridiculous, how quickly he was becoming annoyed with this conversation, as if it were something as mundane as him chastising Hannibal for not checking his mail while he was gone. “You’d think a fucking civilized person would write a bloody letter or something.”

“A letter?” Hannibal scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, ‘cause we always been real civilized here, twit. He didn’t leave us nothin’, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. Didn’t have nothing to leave. All the old wanker had to his name by the end was a 100-year-old bottle of scotch. An’ he left that to the slag he’d been seein’ ‘til then. More than half his age, she was. Convinced her he was old money and had a secret fortune to his name. When he kicked it and she found out he was broke, she drank the whole thing and came over and wrecked up _my_ car, for some fuckin’ reason. So good riddance to the both of ‘em.”

“Sweet Satan, Hannibal.” Murdoc let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe this. It was surreal. Hannibal raised an eyebrow at his younger brother, suddenly looking just as baffled as Murdoc felt.

“What, twit, you go gay on me while you was locked up?” Hannibal asked. “As if that wanker would’ve given it two shites if one of his pikey bastards wound up dead. So what should I care? What should you care? It’s a load off me back, mate. Should be one off yours, too.”

Murdoc opened his mouth to reply. Nothing came out, and he closed it back up again. Trying to talk to Hannibal as if he were a reasonable human being, as usual, would be a losing battle, but moreover, Murdoc realized that he truly didn’t know what to say.

Hannibal had a point. Murdoc couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. He supposed it seemed a little odd to get hung up on this news, considering that both he and his own father had treated one another as if they were dead up until that point. Murdoc figured it had been decades since he last heard his father’s voice, and he had never even given it much thought until now. Neither of them were exactly family men. In fact, Hannibal had the misfortune of probably knowing him better in their adulthood, due to the two of them stubbornly sticking to Stoke-On-Trent. So why should he care? What difference did it really make, in the end?

But Hannibal had always had a different relationship with their father than Murdoc had. Sebastian was less involved in Hannibal’s life as a whole, due to his eldest son showing from a very young age his absolute lack of talent, ambition, or anything closely resembling a personality. To put it simply, Hannibal was a harder sell. This became glaringly clear early on in their childhood, and so for the most part, Sebastian just let him be. Murdoc was a different story. Murdoc had always wanted to do something with himself. He had no idea what -- hell, he still wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing with himself. But he always found it difficult to relate with Hannibal’s absence of motivation.

In the end, it made him all the easier the capitalize on. Taking it for what it was, Sebastian was much more present in Murdoc’s childhood than Hannibal’s. 

Murdoc had always grown up not knowing which situation was worse. At the moment, though, it seemed that Hannibal was the one better off after all.

One thing was certain -- Hannibal was a terrible, gormless idiot of a man, and there was no sense in having any sort of conversation with him at all, let alone one regarding the death of the man who raised them. He had already lingered too long here, and being back in his hometown in this situation was beginning to make him ill. Murdoc gave a dismissive wave of his hand, after a while.

“We’re done here.” He said, whisking back around towards the open door. He heard Hannibal scoff in annoyance behind him.

“Good.” Hannibal replied. “You got anymore money yet, twit? Me bookie’s fixin’ to take the other pinkie, I don’t square up soon.”

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped Murdoc’s thoat. “As if I’d give you any if I did.”

Finally, he left, without another word or look back. There was no point in looking back anymore. No reason to take in any more of Stoke-On-Trent. Murdoc knew he wouldn’t be able to drive out of here fast enough as it was. He heard the door to Hannibal’s flat slam shut behind him before getting into his car, hoping to leave all of this in the dust behind him as he peeled out of the street. But he had a feeling that this time, it would only follow him home.

-_-_-_-

Murdoc cursed as he struggled with the door to his temporary flat in London. The lock was dodgy and rusted, and after too many hours of being trapped in a car with nothing but a restless raven and his own thoughts, he couldn’t get inside quickly enough. It was a small, shitty little place, only big enough to serve as a mediocre respite from the cold until he could actually get some real money in. He hadn’t even been there yet. The label had taken the liberty of sending a few things over before him; a few bits of recording equipment and instruments, some personal affects of his, a crate or two or six of some good scotch and whiskey. The bare necessities, of course.

As much as he was looking forward to the alcohol, the thought of having to stay in that shoddy flat soured Murdoc’s mood. He had been trying to gather his thoughts the car ride over to tide himself over, start putting his plan into action to get the Gorillaz back together and make his money back.

It was all so simple. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this before. All he had to do was find them.

Nevermind the fact that all his band mates were either missing or presumed dead.

Cortez cawed loudly in Murdoc’s ear, and Murdoc flinched, the keys to the flat slipping from his grasp and falling to the ground. A few more expletives found their way out of Murdoc’s mouth, before he knelt down to pick them up, starting the whole process over again.

It was fine. This had never stopped him before. It was perfectly fine. Things always worked out for him when he needed them to.

He would be fine.

They would be fine.

Everything would be perfectly, excruciatingly fine.

Just as soon as he could get into this fucking door.

A guttural, beast-like sound suddenly escaped his throat, and he gave the doorknob a few violent shakes before reeling back and kicking the whole thing in.

This was fine, too. Who needed a door that worked properly? Not him. All he needed was those ten crates of booze that he knew would be waiting for him inside, then he’d be able to think. It was fine.

It was pitch black inside, the lights all off and it already being close to midnight. Murdoc grumbled as he took a step inside, promptly tripping over something in his path and almost falling flat on his face. Cortez flew off his shoulder with an indignant squawk, flapping off somewhere into the darkness.

“Fucking fuck!” Murdoc hissed, regaining his balance and fumbling around for a light switch. “What in the bloody hell-?”

His fingers found a light on the wall, and he turned it on, glaring towards the doorway to see what was placed so haphazardly in front of it. When he saw it, he furrowed his brow in annoyance.

It was a large box from FedEx. Only a bit smaller than what a refrigerator might come in. It wouldn’t have been so strange, considering that all of his things were currently in boxes, but the package seemed to have already been opened.

Cortez cawed from the main room, and Murdoc tore his incredulous glare from the large crate to look over at him. He immediately froze at the sight before him. Time seemed to stop at that moment, and it felt like hours that he stood there, just staring.

At first, it startled him.

He barely recognized her.

She sat in the middle of the dimly-lit living room, cross-legged atop an old amp. Cortez was perched upon her shoulder, playing with her black, messy hair. She stroked his neck with one hand, making soft clicking noises at the bird, while the other hung off to the side, holding onto a half-empty bottle of scotch.

If she hadn’t looked so different, Murdoc would have thought it was the Cyborg. But she was too old for that. Too mature, too striking -- too unfamiliar. And yet, after a while, it became clear that she was still so unmistakably Noodle.

When Noodle finally looked up at Murdoc, he felt as if she was doing in in slow motion. She was calm and collected, almost expressionless as she met Murdoc’s gaze. She gently shooed the raven from her shoulder, who flew off to a different part of the flat. After a moment, she lifted up the bottle of scotch to her lips, taking a generous swig from it, all while maintaining eye contact with the man in front of her. She swallowed easily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“The door was open.” She deadpanned.

Murdoc was again taken aback by the fact that he could hardly even recognize her voice. How long had it been since he had seen her, after all? Since he had _really_ seen her? Seen her like how he always wanted to remember her, laughing and sunny and carefree? More than a decade? The thought was suddenly enough to send a shudder through him. His face twitched, breaking eye contact with her briefly. But he looked back up again, trying to take it all in.

“That is you, isn’t it, love?”

Murdoc spoke aloud before he had even known what he was going to say, and his words were so quiet that he could scarcely hear himself. As he spoke, he realized that the question was a familiar one. One that his brain had desperately tried to keep buried, along with sleepless, drunken nights on Plastic Beach. He would lose himself sometimes, the alcohol obscuring his judgment and the very fabric of his reality, and he would look at the Cyborg and ask her that question. She had always responded with a cold, robotic silence.

Noodle bit her lip, looking down at the ground. After a while, she uncrossed her legs, slipping off of the amp to stand upright. She placed the bottle of scotch on top of it, turning back to Murdoc and walking towards him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but halfway there, she outstretched them towards him. She caught him in a hug, pulling herself into his chest with a sureness that Murdoc wasn’t sure he was worthy of.

God only knew how she even made it through everything. Or what she had been doing for all these years, alone. Or how in the hell she had managed to ship herself off, yet again, to the exact right place at the exact right time. He knew that he was lucky son of a bitch, but this was difficult to take in.

But Murdoc was tired, and he couldn’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not at the moment. He slowly returned the hug, squeezing almost too tightly as he tried not to think about how much smaller she was the last time he had done this. He rested his chin on the top of her head, staring out into the box-filled room in front of him.

He didn’t dare close his eyes, for the fear that upon opening them again, it would all be gone.


End file.
